AftermyfirstsightingofChezBaldwinin2000,Itraveledtootherplaces importanttothewriter—fromthestreetsofHarlemandGreenwichVillage to Paris, to Istanbul, Ankara, and Bodrum—and met many people whoknewhimandsharedlivingspaceswithhim,andwhoallconfirmed hisparadoxicalneedforafranticnomadiclifestyleontheonehand,and, on the other, his fervent desire to establish a stable domestic routine in multiplelocations.Intriguedbyhislate-lifeturntodomesticityaswellasthe increasingfocusofhisworksonfamilies,femalecharacters,andblackqueer homelifethatareprominentinJustaboveMyHeadandTheWelcomeTable,I returnedtoChezBaldwininJune2014.BythattimeIhadpublishedabook onthewriter’sTurkishdecadeandnumerousarticlesaboutvariousaspects of hisworks.

IwasnotpreparedforwhatIsawinplaceofthehousethathadbeen fulloffurniture,books,papers,photographs,andartwhenIfirstsawand photographed it. Now, I confronted an empty, disintegrating structure, virtually open to the elements, filling with vegetation and wildlife that hadcreptinsideoverthewallsandwindows.Thebackpatioinfrontofthe study,whereBaldwinlikedtotakereadingbreaksataroundtableunder an umbrella, along with the brick and stone pathways through the gardenweresoovergrownwithuncheckedweedsthatthecrumblingstructureofthehouseseemedtofloatontopoftalltangrassesswayinginthe breeze.Fullofsharplittleburrs,thisgrassyexpansetuggedatone’sshoes, attached its tiny hooks to fabric and straps, and scratched one’s skin as if attempting to deter movement. An occasional orange tree hung with brightfruitflashedamidthetangledgreeneryanddriedbranches,asifto recall the harmony between natural bounty and human husbandry that once existedhere.

Outside the writer’s study, 2014. Photo by Magdalena J. Zaborowska.

The writer’s study, on the ground floor in the back, where Georges Braquehadoncepainted,andwhichBaldwincalledhis“torturechamber,” hadbrokenshuttersandwindows,onemissingglassentirely,andseemed especiallyexposedandpitiful.WhenIvisitedthehouseforthefirsttime in2000,thestudyhadbeenrentedouttopayfortheupkeepofthehouse, and so I was only able to photograph its well-kept exterior. Now the interior not only was wide open to view but also nearly blended together withthelandscape,theboundariesbetweenwallandgardennearlyerased, andthewriter’sroomhadbecomeacavernthatsportedafireplacefilled withdryleaves.Itseemedterriblysignificantthattheveryspacethatused tohousethewriter’screativelaborswasthemostporousandopentothe elements,themostvulnerableanddeserted.Thereweretracesoftransient visitors,orlaborerssentbytheowner,someofwhomleftplasticbottles andfoodwrappersscatteredonthefloor.Thetrashmingledwithleaves, twigs,deadbugs,androdentdroppings,creatingmysteriousorganic/plastic designsonthestonemosaicfloor.

Thecontrastbetweentheinteriorimages,takenduringmytwovisits,speakstothesadfateofChezBaldwin.Once inside the study, easily accessible through low, open windows, Inoticed themelancholyprogressionoftimemarkedbythevinessnakingoverthe chipped-tilefloors,markingtrailswithnobeginningandend.Thatpartof thehouseconsistedofthreeroomslinkedtogetherthatendedwithasmall modernbathroom.ThespaceofwhatusedtobetheheartofChezBaldwin, thatinnersanctumofthestudy,feltsoeeriewhilewewanderedaroundit that my 12-year-old son, Caz, who accompanied me on that trip, picked up a rusty hoe he found in the grass outside and told me he intended to protect us with it, “just in case.” I tried to explain to him that the haunted feeling we picked up was simply that, a feeling our bodies generated, a normal sensation caused by the surroundings, a reaction to perhaps just a smidgen of guilt that accompanied our not-exactly-authorized visit to the property. I did have to engage in rather convoluted verbal gymnastics to explain to him that our entry was justified, indeed, was performed in the noble “interest of knowledge” and “for a good cause” of documenting a structure that might soon be gone.

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As we wandered through the house and the grounds for over an hour, I found myself surprised by how emotionally fraught the confrontation between my past and present experiences of that space proved to be. I felt both sadness and anger that the house was let go by the Baldwin family following David Baldwin’s death,eventhoughitwaspossibletoholdontoit.Ialsofelt frustrationanddespairaboutmyownimpotencetodoanything,blaming myselffornothavingtakenmanymorephotographsin2000(whoknew thehousewouldbelostsosoon?!),regrettingthatIneversawthewriter’s studyfurnishedandinhabited.Ikeptcirclingaroundthestructure,photographing frantically, getting annoyed as my son nagged me to leave.So muchneededtobedone,preserved,anddocumented;somuchhadbeen lost already. The obvious reason behind all this turmoil was the painful factthattheonlyviablewriter’shouseforJamesBaldwinanywhereinthe worldwascrumblingawaybeforemyeyes.Itwasnotyetgoneandcould possiblybesaved,butitwaseffectivelyoutofreachofanybodywhomight wanttopreserveitbythesky-highpricethatrealestatebiddingwarshad stamped onit.

Whocouldaffordtopay30millioneurosforawriter’shousethatwas fallingapart?Woulditbebulldozedtoprovidespaceforshinynewtourist quartersorarichman’svillaandswimmingpool?Orwoulditbeleftalone, thelesseroftwoevils,waitingfortheravenouslandscapetoabsorbthecrumblingstructurecompletely?ByearlyNovember2014,Jillsentmeadistressed emailandacoupleofhastilytakenphotographsthatprovidedglimpsesof what was left of the house. Perhaps the reason why the first part of Chez Baldwintogowasthemostvital—thewriter’sstudioandlivingquarters—had to do with razing to the ground any remnants of Baldwin’s tenuous hold on the structure. I was not there when it happened, but I feel as though I had been: the disturbed soil smelled moist and cold, richly brown, loamy, and mineral, the day overcast and solemn.

“The only viable writer’s house for James Baldwin anywhere in the world was crumbling away before my eyes.”

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AfterCazandIsawthehouse,wemettheownerofthefamedlocalrestaurantandinn,LaColombed’Or,MadamePitouRoux.Aswechattedin thefoyerofherestablishment,whichBaldwinvisitedregularly,shetoldus thatthestateofChezBaldwinwasashameandproofofthemeannessand small-mindednessofthosewhowantedtocapitalizeonthatpropertyand driveawaythememoryofBaldwin.Middle-agednow, PitouRouxknew“UncleJimmy”asachild,andsheadoredhimthroughouthislifeinSt.Paul-de-Vence.Sherecallshavinglongconversationswith him into the night when she was a young woman in her twenties, when she needed “life advice.”

I first spoke to her in 2000, and she was much morelivelyinhermannerandhopefulaboutChezBaldwin’sprospectsat thattime;hermother,Yvonne,wastooilltospeaktome.Sheremembered herfirstsightingofBaldwinthen,attherestaurantwhereweweresitting: he was so striking and charismatic, ugly and beautiful at the same time, that she thought he might have been one of Joan Miró’s drawings come tolife.Shecherisheshismemoryandcontinuestoreceivevisitorsand fieldtheirmanyquestions.Atthesametime,by2014,sheseemedslightly paranoid about being recorded against her will. When we were aboutto leave,sheaskedCaztounrollahoodiehehadbeenholdingoverhisarm—“Whatdoyouhaveinthere?Showme?!”Shewantedtomakesurewehad notbeenspyingonher;Iwasbothdisturbedandamusedbythissuspicion, whilemysonfounditmean.

Threeyearsafterhisfirstvisittothesite,thistimeCazofferedtobreak downasidedoorthatwasnailedshut,sothatwecouldenterandtakemore photosoftheinteriorofBaldwin’slastroom.Iwantedtodoit,butItold himotherwise,sadlyawarethatwecouldlikelygetawaywithphotographingthestructureforthepurposesofresearch,butnotwithhavingcaused “damage” to it. We had spent the week before documenting Baldwin’s archive, then stored at the house of Leonore, Jill’s daughter, in the tiny AlpinevillageofGuillaumes,abouttwohoursfromSt.Paul-de-Vence. Havingdocumentedtherichesofhislibrary,David’smanypaintings, thewriter’sphotosandposters,wefoundthevisittothehousesad,even disturbing.TheboxeswhosecontentsIhadphotographedpainstakingly, andsomeitemsstoredatJill’shouse,includingthefamouswelcometable, were then the sole material effects of the writer’s domestic life. As we wereleaving,Ihadthefeelingthatthiswasmylastpilgrimagetothesite ofBaldwin’sdomicile.Ipickedupasakeepsakeasmallshardofwhatmight have been a brown clay flowerpot from the dirt where his study usedtobe.

In2014,the poet and critic Ed Pavlić had gone to see the house with Lynn Scott and her husband days before my journey here, and he sent me a photograph thathelpedmetofindmywayontothegroundswithoutseriousacrobatics. Pavlić’sreactiontothestateofChezBaldwinwasmoreupbeatthanmineor Doug’s,ashethoughtthehousesturdyandsolidandsimplyneeding“lots oflove.”ThehouseofJamesBaldwin,whetherstillstandingornot,and regardlessofitslegalownership,remainsanimportantaccesspoint—literal and literary—to Baldwin’slegacy.

After my three visits to the site and obsessive rereading ofBaldwin’s house-tournarrativeinArchitecturalDigest,Irealizedthattheonlywayto dealwiththematerialonhandwastoattempttoexcavate,ifyouwill,what remainsofChezBaldwindespiteitsgradualerasure,towriteintobeingits materialandmetaphoricalstoriesasablackqueerdomesticspacethatwas keytothewriter’slaterworks.

Magdalena J. Zaborowska is Professor of Afroamerican and American Studies and the John Rich Faculty Fellow at the Institute for the Humanities at the University of Michigan, and the author and coeditor of several books, including James Baldwin's Turkish Decade: Erotics of Exile and Me and My House: James Baldwin's Last Decade in France, both published by Duke University Press, and How We Found America: Reading Gender through East European Immigrant Narratives.